She's a Lady

©Jeff Franks — May 1998

There are no trees, only scrub-brush and micro dust,
suspended in air so pure — so cold and clean — that it hurts to breathe
The sky is filled with millions of ignorant flies, gnats and mosquitoes that light
and wait to be crushed on hard tanned quadriceps by dirty callused hands

There are deep urgent breaths all around me,
this air is as thin as the margin for error
Anchored by my daypack to this smooth granite seat,
below my dangling approach shoes,
the Earth is slowly turning and falling into the sun,
creating this beautiful river of clouds
that changes from orange to purple and back to orange again;
a pulsating ribbon of vapor

This is the roof of America, the fence between good and bad neighbors.
Below this dirty ridge is the Pacific Coastal Trail, that leads to the north
and the west and climbs to like a leafless vine to Paradise,
Mt. Ranier’s holding cell
for those silly Shinto climbers who gravitate to Cadaver Pass

Wearing alloy crampons and carrying jagged ice tools,
with their false courage buried behind white teeth and pink tongues,
their chests full of pounding hearts
muffled by their black and blue Gore-Tex parkas,
and their well–hidden fears beneath opaque glacier glasses —
that reflect the trophy, their mistress —
coldly seductive, but aloof,
a lady that welcomes no one to suck on her cold upturned bosom